Poem of the Day

That's great Piglet! I needed a nice laugh. :lol: It reminds me of a short story I once wrote from a dragon's eye view.

Thanks, I couldn't resist. I like the last line especially.

I did send it to Pen in a pm. :D

Since no one has posted yet today. . .

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Great poem Hyacinth. One of my all time favorites. Do you like Walac Stevens?

Thanks Hyacinth. That's a great poem. I'm glad it's not winter now as I'm reading this though. ;)

Very nice Hyacinth. :D It is a poem where rythm and sound is more important than the rhyme. I like that in a poem.

The meaning here kind of escapes me. Does anyone else understand it? Would it be a snow man, whose mind is made of snow?

Poem for June 14:

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I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,--
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.

-Thomas Hood

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I like the way the memories of childhood are described in this poem. The comparison with the present loss of innocence is perhaps a bit predictable, but still an enjoyable poem.

nice

nostalgic

Hello everyone; sorry I haven't replied to you . . they actually expect me to WORK here occasionally! Go figure.

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Do you like Walac Stevens 


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- Yes, Virgil, I do. One of my profs in grad school, Robert Pack, set me on Stevens, and I've been reading him ever since.

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Would it be a snow man, whose mind is made of snow 


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- Piglet, I think that is part of the poems ambiguity at work. I think the "mind of winter" belongs to a snowman, but can also apply to a "snow man" - a man made of snow, or like stuff. In other words, a man of ephemerality with the appearance of substantiality. I think Stevens is using this to articulate the human condition. The term "snow man" also echoes Eliot's "hollow man" in some respects. :cold:

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Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love

I like the way the memories of childhood are described in this poem. The comparison with the present loss of innocence is perhaps a bit predictable, but still an enjoyable poem.

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I agree, and as a good Wordsworthian, I have to feel sorry for the speaker that cannot recapture some glimmer of the lost child -

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

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Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl

I agree, and as a good Wordsworthian, I have to feel sorry for the speaker that cannot recapture some glimmer of the lost child -

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This is the loss of memory referred to in my version of "Deep Purple:"

When the purple turtle drowns
And the Irish elf wears browns,
Then the lights begin to dim out from my eye.
With the loss of my memory
You color my reverie,
Making me blue,
I know not why.

Ode

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim:
Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the list'ning Earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
'The Hand that made us is Divine.'

Joseph Addison

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

by Maya Angelou

Well, I had never actually read this poem, although I have heard of it. There are those who scoff at it and those who praise it, and so now that i've read it I've got a right to an opinion. Put me in the camp that thinks it's crap. I'm sorry. I've never read Maya Angelou's poetry, so I will not judge her as a poet, but this poem is very second rate at best. Frankly I'm not sure it's even third rate. And before I get myself in trouble, let me say I in no way am disparaging her theme.

A New Song By Langston Hughes

I speak in the name of the black millions
Awakening to action.
Let all others keep silent a moment
I have this word to bring,
This thing to say,
This song to sing:
Bitter was the day
When I bowed my back
Beneath the slaver's whip.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day
When I saw my children unschooled,
My young men without a voice in the world,
My women taken as the body-toys
Of a thieving people.
That day is past.
Bitter was the day, I say,
When the lyncher's rope
Hung about my neck,
And the fire scorched my feet,
And the oppressors had no pity,
And only in the sorrow songs
Relief was found.
That day is past.
I know full well now
Only my own hands,
Dark as the earth,
Can make my earth-dark body free.
O thieves, exploiters, killers,
No longer shall you say
With arrogant eyes and scornful lips:
"You are my servant,
Black man-
I, the free!"
That day is past-
For now,
In many mouths-
Dark mouths where red tongues burn
And white teeth gleam-
New words are formed,
Bitter
With the past
But sweet
With the dream.
Tense,
Unyielding,
Strongand sure,
They sweep the earth-
Revolt! Arise!
The Black
And White World
Shall be one!
The Worker's World!
The past is done!
A new dream flames
Against the
Sun!

Very nice Pensy! :) This poem has a meaning, a reason to be. This poem wants to help change the world.

Thanks RJ, I love this poem and some of the other poems of Hughes. They are based on opposition to racial discrimination basically. You should check out some others by him as well such as The Negro Speaks. . .

Wow! What a contrast between the two poems. Nice job Pensive/Scher. When I first read the Angelou poem, I found it attractive, but after reading the Hughes poem, I found the Angelou poem to have a completely different tone than what I had first realized. Both poems are similar as they draw upon the horrors of the past, and emphasize the strength of character found among the descendants of an enslaved people. Angelou's poem seems to mock and berate modern oppressors as well, imaginary or not, and its speaker takes a passive role compared to the Hughes poem. Hughes' speaker chooses to focus upon hope for the future, a hope that is dependent upon the actions of the former slaves, not their former oppressors. Hughes wants the black and white world to unite into a "Workers World" - Angelou seems content to taunt (as well she might) and continue on unbowed instead of working toward a solution. I feel that it is the weaker poem, as both emphasize the endurance of a people, but Hughes' speaker seeks a way to actually end the antagonism.

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Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl

I feel, however, that it is the weaker poem, both in structure and in message.

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The messages in both are admirable in their own way. The problem I have with the Angelou poem is that it's maudlin number one, but more importantly there are hardly no poetic lines in the entire piece. I like the conceits of the "black ocean" and of the "dust rising." But the rest of the poem is no different than a pop song, and perhaps with the right music this would be an excellent pop song. But as far as poetry goes, it's quite limited. In my humble (are any of my opinions humble? ;) ) opinion.

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The messages in both are admirable in their own way

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I agree Virgil, that both carry an admirable message (see my edited post), I just feel that Angelou undermines herself by "maudlin", to use your own term, navel-gazing. I do not say this to disparage her message or her poem, but her message seems to say, "Whatever you do to me, I will continue to rise up" - an admirable message. Hughes, however, says, "We were slaves, now we are free, and we will use that freedom to our advantage, not just to prove our strength, but to also work towards an understanding". I think Angelou's failure to reach out for a solution that does not involve just endurance, but acceptance "weakens" her message.
*Note: I use the authors' names, but I mean "speakers" :D

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I think Angelou's failure to reach out for a solution that does not involve just endurance, but acceptance "weakens" her message.

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I think so too. Perhaps the implication is there, but she doesn't actually say it. If she (the oppressed African American peoples?) merely continues to rise again and again while she keeps getting trounced upon, what is the poem really saying?

Though she does at one point in the poem say that

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I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

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I like the Hughes poem because I can identify it's themes easier; though I'm not sure if that is just because they are stereotypical.

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Bitter was the day, I say,
When the lyncher's rope
Hung about my neck,
And the fire scorched my feet,
And the oppressors had no pity,
And only in the sorrow songs
Relief was found.

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I didn't really relate to the oil pumps and gold mines in Angelou's poem . . . she's saying that despite getting grieved and oppressed she will present/employ/exert/conduct herself as if she had . . . . money?

Besides which, I really like African American Gospel music, and oral traditions.

I think that the Hughes poem had a lot more imagery that made it better for me personally.

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Dark mouths where red tongues burn
And white teeth gleam-
New words are formed,
Bitter
With the past
But sweet
With the dream.

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Originally Posted by Hyacinth Girl

but her message seems to say, "Whatever you do to me, I will continue to rise up" - an admirable message. Hughes, however, says, "We were slaves, now we are free, and we will use that freedom to our advantage, not just to prove our strength, but to also work towards an understanding". I think Angelou's failure to reach out for a solution that does not involve just endurance, but acceptance "weakens" her message.

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In all fairness to Angelou, this is but one lyric poem not a comprehensive opus that explores various aspects of the African-American experience. Perhaps she has a simliar theme to Hughes' poem elsewhere, but a simple lyric poem focuses on one emotion not several and this is what she chooses for this one poem. I just don't think it's well done.

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I all fairness to Angelou, this is but one lyric poem not a comprehensive opus that explores various aspects of the African-American experience.

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Again, Virgil, I agree with you. This is simply one poem of many in Angelou's collection. My point is that when comparing the two works, Angelou's falls short in scope (and in my opinion, hope) by comparison. That is why I say that particular poem is weaker than Hughes' in both structure and message. Her work as a whole, however, does not necessarily do so.

Besides, what do I know, I'm a Ren scholar! :lol:

Since no one has posted a new poem in a couple days, here is one that I have been pondering of late:

Solitude
George Gordon, Lord Byron

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam alone, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

;) awesome.

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Originally Posted by Reason is a cow

;) awesome.

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Thank you. . . the university really TRIED to brainwash me into being a Romantic! :brow:

Edits: Poem Deleted. Didn't think about the rule while posting:

The same person can't post within five days.

Ooh, can I post one? I don't think I ever have.

Poetry
By Marianne Moore


I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against 'business documents and

school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
'literalists of
the imagination'--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall
we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

Oh I lve this poem Psyche. Great choice. I love these lines:

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the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--

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My first posting on this thread:

I'm not a great Plath fan, but I love this one

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Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath

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This is one of my favorite things by Plath.
I especially like the closing lines:

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In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

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In my reading, not only do these lines represent the passage of time and the tragedy of aging, but they make the woman complicit in her own aging by the drowning of the young girl of her youth. The poem, in some respects, warns others of the peril they face by allowing the "terrible fish" of the old woman to rise unchallenged and drowning the image of their youth. The mirror/lake must tell the truth - it cannot hide age, but allowing youth to "drown" creates a permanent state that is not only physical, but mental as well.

Ever since reading this poem for the first time I have made it a point not to drown my "young girl" by mooning beside a lake, or by suppressing her thoughts. Instead I seek each day to make her live, at least for a moment, whether by the twinkle in my eye, or a laugh at the beauty of the morning. My mirror/lake may show the rise of the "terrible fish" of age, but it also reveals the young girl and the old woman meeting and having a cup of tea.

I think that Plath was warning us about the death of youth, of joy, and of naivite, all through the construct of a mirror/lake that is objective in a way that other human beings can never be ("I have no preconceptions/ Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.")

Where the Mind is Without Fear -- Rabindranath Tagore

This poem is from Tagore's book named Gitanjali (Offering of Songs)

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Lovely poem Madhuri, full of longing and hope

It was written during Indian freedom struggle, that is why it portrays the hope Tagore had and the land he wanted after freedom.

And yet it is relevant in today's society as well . . . it should be the goal of every country to achieve that kind of "heaven of freedom" (I'm going to stop there before this heads into the taboo realm of politics!:D)
I especially like the lines: "Where the world has not been broken up into fragments/
By narrow domestic walls" - I think that can apply to a country being isolated from the world, but it also applies on the level of the individual. That feeling of isolation, of a fragmentary world seems to be a part of modern existence that we are constantly trying to overcome.

In some way or the other in today's times as well, we are forever wanting to gain freedom from the boundaries set by others, or our surroundings, forever trying to create that heaven of freedom.

The idea behind posting it was not politics, but as Hayacinth rightly interpreted, its relevance in our lives.

1909

The lady's dress was
Of purple corded silk
And her gold-broidered tunic
Was formed of two panels
Fitted at the shoulder

Her eyes danced like angels
She laughed she laughed
Her face showed France's colors
Blue eyes white teeth and lips of scarlet
Her face showed France's colors

Her dress was scooped low front and back
Her hair was waved a la Recamier
And O the fair bare arms she had

Will midnight never toll the hour

The lady clad in the purple corded silk
And the gold-broidered tunic
Scooped low front and back
Tossed her curls
Her gold bandeau
And trailed wee buckled shoes

She was so beautiful
You wouldn't have dared love her

I used to love dreadful women in crowded slums
Where each day a few new creatures were born
Iron was their blood and flame their brain
I loved I loved the clever tribe of machines
Luxury and beauty are only their spume
That woman was so beautiful
She frightened me

~Guillaume Apollinaire
(translated by Anne Hyde Greet)

That was lovely. . . I haven't read Apollinaire in a long time, and this has spurred me on to pulling him out and reading him again. Thank you.

I really enjoy the juxtaposition of ethereal woman (purple silk, bare arms and wavy hair) and the terrestrial one (iron, flame, machine). While one would imagine from the speaker's description that the lady in silk would be the object of desire, the expectation is dashed, and the "dreadful" women of earthiness, of industry and its slums, are the chosen. They are loved, and they remain, while "Luxury and beauty are only their spume" to be discarded and feared.

I also enjoyed reading the Apollinaire again. I was wondering, Genoveva (or anyone else for that matter), do you have it in the original french and could post that? I've read it before in translation, but always wondered what the original sounds like.